Men Without Chests

Rose with Teeth Music Feed

'History is a tissue of base and cruel acts in the midst of which a few drops of purity sparkle at long intervals.' —Simone Weil, 'The Need for Roots' 'And all the time—such is the tragi-comedy of our situation—we continue to clamour for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilisation needs is more "drive", or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or "creativity". In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful.' —C. S. Lewis, 'The Abolition of Man' Late capitalism has produced masses of uprooted people without moral fibre, with little conscience. Communities have fallen apart. Trust has all but evaporated. Millions of human beings, deprived of meaning in their lives, have filled the holes in their hearts with drugs, alcohol, and mindless entertainment. Billions sacrifice themselves and their children to Mammon in return for a fraction of what they produce. Education is no longer about training both heart and mind, but training the child to be a complacent worker with no aspirations, with no thymos. And yet some dare to make chests for themselves, to learn compassion, to strive for their fellow human beings. These people will lead the future. • Lyrics: Saw a homeless guy and gave him a sandwich. He refused but I insisted; he thanked me profusely. Snow on the ground—wondering if he was too cold; hope he's all right now, seemed like a pretty nice guy. Good old fashioned תִקוּן עוֹלָם, putting it back together piece by piece. It's kinda rare to see these days: person-to-person, neighbour-to-neighbour. Found some war crimes, downloaded the footage, got court-martialed; seven years being tortured. People calling me a traitor—what'd I do wrong? The president hates me and orders more missile strikes. War crime after war crime, no justice, no peace, black and brown people slaughtered in the streets. Protecting what? Property. Serving what? Capital. Maybe, just maybe, it was a joke from the beginning, starting from genocide, doing nothing about genocide. Men without chests in the halls of power. Pray to Jesus something might change, maybe… Seems like a farce to me. That glimmer of hope just keeps on fading, fading away from sight. 'You must love your neighbour as yourself.' —Mark 12:31, Lamsa • Credits: • Evangeline Sutherland ——vocals, production, guitar, synths, lyrics, composition